Married to Jesus

Bathilda Butts was married to Jesus, and she had the ring
on her finger to prove it.
An awkward situation, one would have to concede,
given that nuptial vows generally carried the
promise of some form of physical consummation.
And while the spiritual bliss in anticipation of
ethereal lovemaking to the savior was useful for
derivation of a snobbish holier-than-thou sort of headrush,
she secretly hedged the bet with various forms of
compensation.

Not that the perks were so bad -- she got to wear
this cool-looking and intimidating uniform,
and to crouch behind the image of pristine purity
as she regularly devoured opportunities to crush the
dreams and creativity of young children.

And while one might dispute the contention that
she was built like a refrigerator, there was
no denying that her distinguished physique had
been constructed from the contents of many a refrigerator.
And while the thick, dark facial hairs that sprouted and
lengthened, curling freely untrimmed across her chin could not
properly be referred to as a beard, neither could they be
casually dismissed as simple peach fuzz.
And while one might hesitate in labeling the
hideous expression permanently wrinkled
into her ominous visage -- was it a scowl, or perhaps a sneer?
-- there was little doubt it sprang from decades of
grudgery and guilt. Many decades. Many, many decades.
The term “fossil” would not have been far out of place.

Nonetheless, the decades without sex still took their toll,
and many a night she found herself yearning for more than
the stamped and officially approved Papal Promise of future
bliss in the company of her beloved.
His image that hung on the wall opposite her bed bore a peculiar
expression, as if the artist had been shooting for an emotion
of holy immersion in divine contemplation, but had unintentionally
instead arrived at a mixture of stunned bewilderment and
astonishment, an expression indeed appropriate for those
occasions when Bathilda supplemented
etheric philosophical speculation regarding her future
marital bliss, with digital stimulation.

So one might imagine her delight one evening,
as her formidable bulk sat in front of the computer on the Internet,
when she stumbled upon the raptureready.com website which
promised, not only a physical incarnation of her beloved,
but gladly furnished details including the projected schedule of events
to take place on his arrival, thus encouraging her to gleefully
formulate various plans and contingencies designed to
ensure her place, not only at his right hand, but at the front
of the line of those to whom he was betrothed, as they
awaited fulfillment of their nuptial vows.

At this point, we must circulate the suspicion that one of the
younger nuns was endowed with a certain playfulness of spirit, in addition
to some not insignificant savvy in terms of networking, or otherwise
devious manipulation of computers. We might suspect that she glimpsed over the
shoulder the object of Bathilda’s obsession, and secretly crafted an alteration
of bookmarked URLs or perhaps a more subtle spoofing of webpage data.

In any event, several nights later, one imagine the sweet pure essence of
delight that poured forth from the inner core of Bathilda’s being as she
read the news that her savior had been spotted, already incarnate on the earth,
and was simply awaiting the signal to commence the holy proceedings,
the damning of the bad and blessing of the good and so forth. The article
was accompanied by a plethora of Biblical quotations to establish with
ultimate certainty the truth with which it spoke, and more importantly,
the street address of the suburban dwelling in which her beloved could be found.

The article mentioned the name he would be found to answer to, Billy-Bob Flagstaff,
a resident of Decatur Texas, and the article bearing the unbelievable news
was soon printed in multiple copies and circulated throughout the convent.
Bathilda may have been greedy, but she was no fool. She knew that, in order
to authorize the bus for the trip to Decatur, she would need to have a quorum.

A factor she may have underestimated, however, was the quantity of email that
blossomed and grew, each further embellishing and embroidering the
wondrous news, leading to the certainty that many busloads from convents
across the U.S. would soon converge on the residence of a certain
hapless Mr. Flagstaff, whose name (as it happens) had been picked more
or less at random from the phone book by a certain mischevious nun.
Yes, busloads of sacredly betrothed, stopping by to pick up what
had long been promised to them.

We need not tarry long on the details of the ensuing bus ride,
other than to say that aspects of the nuns’ conversations
surrounding the name “Flagstaff,”
the act of arousing the flag, and the length of the staff
and so on raised some doubt whether
the name had been selected entirely at random.

We also might mention the book explaining various techniques of
fellation which Bathilda confiscated, and would have ripped to
shreds had not it been wrested from her grasp by another of
the senior nuns. There followed a discussion between “Batty”
(as Bathilda was familiarly known) and the other nuns, a discussion
highly technical theoretical, which pitted Batty’s
exclusive preference for the missionary position against
views of those more liberally minded who felt that our Lord
ought to have the opportunity to experience a bit of variety
in terms of nuptial pleasure, that the King of Kings ought
to be entitled to something more than ordinary, run-of-the-mill sex.

The outcome was that the book remained intact on the condition that
the Savior would be immediately consulted regarding the sinfulness
or virtue of the procedures detailed therein; and that furthermore,
since the Savior had ultimate authority to pardon any sins that might
have recently accrued, there was little harm in the nuns’ taking
turns reading aloud from the sacred tome, and memorizing any
particularly juicy passage that might thus cross their lips
for later discussion, until the entire thing had been spoken
through out loud several times during the course of the long
and tedious voyage.

There was also a lively debate as to whether the consummation would take place
in series or parallel, whether each sister would have to wait in line
for her separate turn, or whether instead He would have some
miraculous method of servicing them all at once. This was, after all,
the fellow who had produced the loaves and fishes.

We might also relate the story of the fortunate roadside hot-dog vendor
whose stand they eagerly patronized, remarking that the average age of
those ladies riding the bus hovered somewhere between 70 and 80 years.
Alongside photographs of his bewildered expression as he witnessed
the busload of nuns practicing various newly-learned techniques
on the hot-dogs, techniques one would rarely expect to see in such company,
in preparation for the coming of our Lord.

The tale of the sacred pilgrammage trails off with the fortuitously-timed
arrival in the cool, still, velvety darkness
of several busloads from diversely located convents
at some time around 3:00 A.M. Tuesday morning,
and how after huddled consultation it was decided that there would commence
a prayer vigil on the savior’s enormous hillside front lawn.
And so they lit candles and kneeled in trancelike enthrallment on the
soft dewy grass, awaiting the rising of the sun
and the emergence of the Lord onto his front doorstep.

Billy-Bob Flagstaff was not a religious man.
He was a Texas Republican, in other words
one of the meanest ,sleaziest low-down vipers
one might ever expect to find.
As a good Republican, he detested natural beauty,
despised the poor, and took great pleasure in
causing anguish and distress to anyone weaker than him,
particularly if he thought that person might
embrace any sort of liberal ideals.
In short, he was a lazy bullying coward, or in other words,
a Texas Republican.

Today he hummed a tuneless melody as he shaved
and poured a breakfast of cold cereal and coffee,
donning his extra-special 3-piece suit
that had just freshly been dry-cleaned, in
preparation for the meeting today with the
Regional Head of the bank at which he was currently
a loan officer, in order to discuss his promotion.

He loved his job (although he sometimes dreamed
of becoming an IRS auditor) because it afforded
so many opportunities to gloat over the
failure of poor people to achieve the
standards of earning necessary to qualify.
He had learned that the gloating was enhanced
by concealment via contrition -- he would go out
of his way to feign disappointment and sadness at the
unfortunate outcome --
and the suckers would be eating out of his
sweaty little hands.
The best part was, the management would
consistently reward such behavior for its
efficiency.
He cackled with delight as he straightened his tie,
gnashing his teeth at himself in the mirror,
in anticipation of yet another wonderful day
at his heavenly job.

Ready to go, he paused with his hand on the doorknob
in the drab grayness of the front room, pushing aside
nagging memories of some bizarre dreams last night,
checking that the front curtains were securely shut
to prevent his across-the-street neighbor from lustfully
scrutinizing through the window is impressive
collection of Readers’ Digest while he was away at work.

Then he opened the front door, stepping out onto the porch into
the blazing brilliance of the new day.

The very instant Bathilda had been waiting for all these years
had finally arrived. She was thrilled to see that her beloved
was clean-cut and nicely dressed, not at all like the scruffy fellow
depicted in popular illustrations.

She immediately sprang up from kneeling and began bounding across the lawn
with spriteliness that astonished all familiar with her age and bulk.
The other virgin ladies soon followed, flanking alongside to surround
the savior.

Mr. Flagstaff stood for a moment on his porch, briefcase in hand,
assessing first the busses parked alongside the curb, then the crowd
of elderly ladies rushing toward him.
The astonishment quickly turned to anger, and he strode
brusquely out onto the grassy hilltop.

“What the Jesus Fuck are you people doing on my front lawn?!”
he demanded, in unintended accord with the theme of the event.

In the next instant, the battle front converged.
Buttons flew from the 3-piece suit, and the suit itself
was soon flung upward in the breeze, to flutter
down into a crumpled pile trodden beneath the feet of
lustful nuns.

Billy-Bob’s protests were of no avail, particularly
as there were plenty of free hands to provide restraint.
The flood-gates had opened,
the flagstaff hoisted to full-mast,
and there was no turning back the tide of
of collected pent-up carnal lust, as each wrinkled
nun in turn took her share of the holy communion.